The night before the duel, the Prince of Ammar relived every bout he`d ever fenced. Every thrust, every parry, and every lunge he`d made in the last twelve years flicked through his mind, starting at age seven when he stabbed the tutor in the leg. As Anryn relived his life through the lens of his sword, he came at last to the moments that hadn`t been playacting. The last two months, where he`d killed two men, and survived encounters with brigands and mages.

　　 A fight for survival was nothing like the fencing club at University. Anryn cringed, remembering in each of the real fights how his feet were all out of position, his elbow sliding out of alignment with his shoulder. Was he actually terrible at fencing? Could it be that the whole court, the entire fencing club, only flattered the Prince of Ammar by pretending to lose?

　　No. Anryn shoved the thought away and relived the moment when the Sight guided him to lunge at the mage. What a lunge that had been! A mage of Nynomath wouldn`t pretend to lose. A terrible swordsman wouldn`t have survived an encounter with a mage.

　　Dueling Griff would be harder. This was a duel of honor. Anryn could not kill or seriously injure the son of a great lord without public opinion turning against him. Losing was equally unacceptable to Anryn. Even though the duel was not trial by combat, Gruffydd would know God was on Anryn`s side if he won, and give up whatever his scheme had been. And Griff might finally learn to keep his gossip to himself.

　　In the dark, Beatrice reached for him. He didn`t realize she was awake. She put her hand on his chest, over his heart.

　　"Are you afraid?" Beatrice whispered. "Is he a better swordsman than you&?"

　　"He`s not. But he`s bigger and has a longer reach," Anryn said.

　　Under her hand, Anryn`s heart started to beat faster. The prince turned to his wife in their bed. He was still not quite used to sleeping next to another person. Each time he realized that she was there, it was as though his whole body tingled with the strangeness of it.

　　"Do you know much about fencing?" Anryn asked.

　　"I do. Dueling is common in Sanchia. If my brother were free, he would be your second," Beatrice said.

　　"Seconds are supposed to talk us out of it," Anryn said. "I don`t even have one. I thought of asking one of Lord Teqwyn`s sons, but I suspect Griff already asked them. Jacob Tommasi might come out for me, but I don`t know&"

　　"Lady Tommasi has been kind to me," Beatrice said. "But, if it`s too late to ask her son, I`ll be your second."

　　Anryn gaped at her. "What? A lady has no business at a duel, and you`re not even allowed in the garden&"

　　Beatrice made a sharp sound in her throat. Her fingers crushed down into Anryn`s chest. "A lady`s business is protecting her family, husband. You need me. So loan me your clothes and help me bind my breasts. My hair is already short. I can pass for a boy."

　　That stung. Anryn pushed her hand away, suddenly very aware of the hairlessness of his chest. Resentful that his wife was right. They were nearly the same height, though Beatrice was two years younger.

　　"You need me," Beatrice insisted. "I have a plan to get the proof that you need for your father. If I go with you to the duel, I can put it into action."

　　Anryn considered her, his eyes picking out little details in the dark that he hadn`t caught in daylight. She lifted her chin when she argued. She had a single, shallow mole on her cheekbone the exact same shade as her eyes.

　　Anryn met her determined gaze and said, "Go on."

　　Beatrice snuggled in closer to Anryn.

　　"Gruffydd says he has coded letters from my father to my brother as proof," she began. "A code requires a cipher. I have one from my mother that would decode any true letter from Sanchia. Gruffydd would have planted the letters in the library of his guest house, but I`ll bet that he didn`t plant a cipher. That would probably be in his own library in his main house. If we can get it, we can compare it against the one I have from my mother and prove that Gruffydd wrote the letters."

　　"How will you search his library?" Anryn asked.

　　"One of his servants will help me," she said. "Ciamon. The man who helped us escape the crowd at the wedding."

　　Something about how she said the man`s name made Anryn want to reach for the Sight. It felt like there would be a line there. The prince turned away from Beatrice, resisting it. Anryn felt a stab of shame. It appalled him how easily witchcraft came to him, now. The urge to use it was almost constant.

　　Well, and why shouldn`t he, some part of the prince argued. Why not seize an advantage, if it kept him alive?

　　Because it`s wrong to abuse an imbalance of power. Anryn`s other self swam just behind his eyes all the time, now. Her words wound around his own, pouring out of his mouth when he accused Gruffydd, when he stood up to the Lightning King. When he was her, the prince knew what to say and what to do. He thought of himself as her. This Anryn was counting on herself to win the duel, without the Sight. She knew she could not be a witch while her father lived.

　　She still needed a second, however.

　　Was Beatrice`s suggestion really so wild? Anryn wondered. He disguised himself as a woman to sneak into Mahaut. It was hypocrisy itself to tell his wife she couldn`t do the same. As a duel of honor, the danger to her would be limited.

　　Anryn dozed off, sleeping for a few fitful hours before the servants woke him an hour before dawn to prepare. Beatrice got up with him to dress him herself, and Anryn sent the attendants away. Alone, he helped Beatrice wind a length of fabric around her chest, pressing her breasts flat. Over this, she wore one of his shirts and jacket that her shoulders almost filled. She slicked back her hair with water and oil, flattening the curls against her scalp.

　　The effect was convincing. Anryn`s heart skipped a beat as Beatrice buckled one of his belts around herself. She handed him another belt, with the sword dangling in its sheath. They left the palace by the side gate and made their way to the garden.

　　They arrived just as the sky turned slate gray with the earliest rays of the sun. A heavy fog covered the streets of Mahaut, shrouding the wedding guests that still slept in the street. Beatrice and Anryn stepped around them and slipped into the public garden by the men`s entrance.

　　Anryn saw a line of empty carts by the fence as they entered. At this time of year, they should have been replanting all the flower beds for spring. As they came nearer to the center of the garden, he saw that the beds had been dug up, and a wooden scaffold was being built over the dirt. The prince froze when he saw the wide, flat platform on top of it.

　　A pyre. They were building a pyre.

　　Beatrice looked at the platform. "Is this supposed to be here?"

　　"My father is going to burn the witches in Mahaut. All at once. Here," said Anryn. He started to shake. How fast did the King of Ammar mean to try and execute the hundreds of people who had come with him for the wedding? They`d been arrested not two days ago!

　　Maertyn& What will I do about Maertyn&

　　"Look alive, husband. They`re up there," Beatrice said. She nodded to the platform. In the mist, Anryn could make out four figures waiting for them there. Griff, Jareth and Idris, and Ciamon Caelt.

　　"Who`s your boy, Ryn? Some urchin you picked up from the street to be your second?" Griff called down to him. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it`s taken without the author`s consent. Report it.

　　The Prince of Ammar heaved himself up onto the platform. Before Anryn thought to turn and offer Beatrice his hand, she`d already climbed up beside him. It was only then that Anryn realized her limp was completely gone. When did that happen?

　　"M`lord, I need your sword," Ciamon said. He stepped forward and held out his hands for Anryn to surrender his blade for inspection.

　　Anryn unsheathed the blade and handed it to him. It felt as though his body moved at half-speed, as if everything passed through water. The prince was aware of the air that slid down the back of his nose, into his throat. He heard the birds chirping in the garden, the faraway sounds of footsteps in the street. Anryn`s focus sharpened down to the moment. They were here, this was happening.

　　A normal duel took several days to arrange, usually through the seconds. But they were all so young that they went off of what they had read about in books. "Meet me at dawn," and twenty yards marked out on the platform with lines of chalk& At least one of Teqwyn`s sons had had the presence of mind to bring bandages and bottles of alcohol for sterilizing the weapons. Beatrice took charge of organizing them and dousing the swords.

　　Between the six of them, they were able to work out the rules of engagement. Once on guard, retreating over the chalked lines counted as surrender. The duel ended when someone died, cried out "Craven!" or when their second declared them unable to continue.

　　Ciamon Caelt acted as the director of combat. It shouldn`t have been someone who worked for Gruffydd in the role, but after the events of the day before, Anryn trusted him. The prince knew that Ciamon could handle himself in a fight from the way he`d helped them out of the alleys.

　　Ciamon handed Anryn back his sword after checking it. Then he tied a white silk handkerchief around the prince`s wrist.

　　"Protects the arteries," he explained.

　　Anryn felt something like nausea. That hadn`t been in the books.

　　There were people gathered in the garden. As the fog burned off, faces emerged from the green and brown patches on the ground. They should not have been there, but gossip flew fast across Mahaut. Men who had come to build the witch`s pyre that morning were treated to the spectacle of a private duel. Anryn wondered if some of them, like Beatrice, were really women sneaking in to see the fight.

　　"We should have sold tickets," Jareth called to Anryn.

　　The prince ignored him. Anryn checked his hilt, ran his eyes down the length of the blade. The dull blue glint of the morning light in the blade impressed him more than the tip. He glanced up and saw more blue—blue eyes like his own, glaring back at him. Lost in his own thoughts, Anryn had almost forgotten about Griff.

　　The son of Gruffydd stripped down to the waist, exposing his broad shoulders and the glossy black hair on his chest. He was bigger than Anryn remembered from Java.

　　He presents a bigger target, the other self whispered. You don`t need the Sight to know where to stab.

　　Anryn glanced at Beatrice. She spoke to Ciamon over by the little table lined with the bandages and alcohol for their wounds. Idris was nodding along with whatever she said, quite content to give an unknown boy his consideration more than he ever would a woman. Beatrice had been right about passing for a boy.

　　"Everything`s ready," Beatrice said when she came back to Anryn`s side.

　　"Gentleman& on guard," Ciamon called.

　　The prince heard the words, and understood them without the need for thought. Anryn saluted Griff from across the line, sank into the familiar angles of knees and elbows. Then the duel began.

　　Griff wasted no time closing the distance between them. He put into action a plan he`d clearly thought up in advance: Crowd Anryn close to the chalk line, overwhelm the prince with his superior size. Griff attacked, roaring out a challenge, slashing the air with a fury.

　　Anryn reacted to the blade, not the noise. He reached the tip of his blade out to touch Griff`s wrist, just past the white line of the silk handkerchief he, too, wore. In the violent action, Griff blade snapped back against Anryn`s. The point of his sword grazed Anryn`s forearm.

　　"Halt!" shouted Ciamon.

　　They broke apart. Jareth and Idris were ready with the alcohol to disinfect the blades. Beatrice mopped blood from the cut in Anryn`s arm. At the edge of the platform, spectators crowded close. The prince could not hear them, but he saw their mouths move. Debating who had got the first hit.

　　It did not matter. This was not a duel for sport with points awarded for touches, disqualifications for off-target hits. The entire body was the target. The goal was to inflict as much damage as possible. Anryn squared at the chalk line to engage again, and considered his options.

　　The torso was the best choice. A single, perfect stab would be fatal. If not in the minutes afterward, then in the months when the wound inevitably festered. Anryn reminded himself his goal wasn`t to kill Griff. He needed to find a way to wound him badly enough to stop him—to drive him to surrender, or prevent him from continuing the fight.

　　The urge to use the Sight tugged at Anryn. He could, if he wanted, unfocus his eyes while they engaged. Follow the glittering gold lines to strike home.

　　Something held him back. Was it only stubbornness? That same angry, bitter resentment that led Anryn to nearly drown himself at Java. Or was there something in the soul that said to the prince, No, you may not; the Sight is not meant for this.

　　Before he could come up with a plan, they were on guard again. This engagement was slower, more technical. Griff let Anryn feel along the edge of his blade before rotating it out of contact and sliding along for a stab at Anryn`s shoulder. The prince flicked his wrist, sending the attack outward and brought the point back to Griff`s chest, scratching him deep in the thick patch of hair. Crimson sprouted from the black curls.

　　"Halt," Ciamon called again.

　　Anryn ground his teeth and let Beatrice dab his forearm again. Somehow there was another gash, there, just above where Griff had landed the first, and another down the top of his right thigh. When did that happen? He glared across the platform at Griff, having his chest doused with alcohol against infection.

　　Beatrice and Idris met again by the table to confer. Idris was shaking his head. Beatrice said something to Ciamon and the man frowned at her. Anryn did not even try to guess at what they negotiated. All that mattered to him was defeating Griff.

　　Both of them bled from half a dozen wounds at once. Somehow, Anryn`s cheek was wet with blood. He couldn`t say if it were a touch from the duel or if one of the scratches from the witch`s rosebush reopened. The platform between them was splattered with droplets and smears of it.

　　Just say craven! Anryn wanted to scream at Griff.

　　"He only wants to embarrass you." Maertyn`s voice came back to Anryn, and the prince remembered all of the times that Griff could have killed him. Not just in Dorland or Java—but in all the years of their lives as children. He could have shoved him down stairs, tripped him while they explored cliffs, or left him deep in the forest when they went hunting. Instead, Griff had been like a brother to Anryn.

　　But the Prince of Ammar has no brothers, the other Anryn whispered. There is only me. I am the only prince that Ammar has—and this is one more man who can`t accept that.

　　Fine. Then let him die here, Anryn agreed. He pointed his finger at the ground from over the crossguard of his sword. When Beatrice came to say something to him, to ask if he wanted to stop, Anryn waved her off.

　　"Enough," said the Prince of Ammar. "I`m not here for pinpricks and a handshake."

　　They were on guard again. Anryn forgot about Maertyn, forgot about God, even forgot himself for a moment. He wasn`t a witch, the woman in the water, or even the Prince of Ammar, then. He was reduced down to a venomous tincture of rage, entitlement, and conviction that blotted out all the little things that made life livable—loyalty, honor, and justice. Nature didn`t care about all of those, or any of them. In that awful moment, neither did Anryn.

　　This time, Anryn slid into the engagement with a double lunge. He drove the leading foot into the ground, lifting himself a little higher in the air while he parried Griff out of the high line. With Griff`s lower body exposed, Anryn closed the distance by throwing his lead leg out to land in a second lunge, extending his sword arm straight out.

　　For a moment, he looked up into Griff`s face. It was distorted, physically and mentally. His mouth was curled in something like his familiar smirk, but his eyes were wide and hollow. Drained of some essential vitality. His entire awareness hinged on the point of Anryn`s sword. Prisoner to the fear of it.

　　That was when Anryn understood why he held himself back from the Sight. To do so then was a gross abuse of power. Griff didn`t come to the duel to kill Anryn. He`d said it himself: He wanted to be the best of the King`s subjects—and dreaded being the least of them. What kind of king would Anryn be if he killed the weakest of his subjects?

　　 At the last possible second, Anryn dropped the point of his blade. He was already too close to break off the attack. The tip was well past Griff`s guard. Anryn brought it out of the line that would have run Griff right through below the belly button. The hit landed lower, at the top of the thigh. Right between the artery and his manhood.

　　"Halt!" Ciamon called, even before Anryn realized he`d landed the hit. "Do not pull that out, Your Highness."

　　With a sound between a scream and a groan, Griff doubled over. Anryn let go of his sword, and caught him as he fell. Jareth and Idris ran to them. Anryn held onto Griff and felt his arms go limp under Anryn`s hands. Unable to continue. The prince had won.

　　All at once, Anryn could hear sounds again. The birds chirping in the trees. The low roar of the crowd now gathered around the platform. Beatrice in his ear, shouting that they needed to take Griff back to his father`s house.

　　Anryn let himself be led along. For the first time hearing the wailing in the streets, so different from the cheers at the wedding, though the voices came from the same people.